


the shadow lies upon his tomb

by asthiathien



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bullying, Children Being Idiots, Durin Feels, Durin Has Issues, Elves being arrogant, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Realistic Consequences of Durin's Memories, Thorin Feels, Thorin Is Durin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asthiathien/pseuds/asthiathien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Durin is older than many beings in Arda, and the trauma of fighting the endless wars against the darkness and of always losing his friends and family, no matter how much he fights, have taken their toll.<br/>A story told through the childhoods of the Durins and the memories of loss, pain, betrayal, and despair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shadow lies upon his tomb

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul translations:  
>  _'adad:_ father  
>  _sigin'adad:_ grandfather  
>  _sigindashat:_ grandson

Durin's first years are spent in Mahal's Halls, tucked safely away in the mountains of Valinor. His memories of his first childhood are the dimmest, but he remembers flashes of learning Khuzdul, secreted away and carefully silent, remembers the fear in his _'adad's_ eyes when Durin ventured out after him and encountered the brilliant, starry radiance that he would later come to recognize as Eru Ilúvatar, remembers the pain and heartbreak in _'adad's_ entire body when he returned to them.

(Fortunately, he remembers nothing at all of the moment when Mahal tried to destroy them for his loyalty to Eru and the One stopped him just before the blow hit home, to the everlasting relief of the Valar.)

However, he remembers with a strange clarity when they first were allowed to roam free in the bright splendour of Valinor. The light was blinding to Durin then, after an entire life spent living in shadows, and the Eldar were already possessing of the arrogance that came as the so-called Firstborn.

(He wonders, later, after everything has gone so terribly wrong, if those first elves realized their rejection caused endless strife and hatred on Middle-earth. Not likely.)

And the elves, tall and fair even in youth and almost shining with light, look down upon the sun-blinded children who never should have existed and can only sneer in disgust.

Never mind that Durin wears a crown of starlight upon his brow gifted from Ilúvatar himself, the first constellation, created even before the Silmarils, given as a gift to _him_ and meant to serve as a symbol of his house forever. Never mind that his forging skills are better than Melkor's, who despite his title of "Most Powerful" can't even manage even the simplest of mithril-work; never mind that he learns Quenya and Sindarin from Manwë; never mind that he spends his nights forging stars with Varda; never mind that he learns warcraft with Tulkas and hunts with Oromë; never mind that he stands at the right hand of Mandos during trials and in time adjudicates all disputes not important enough to call the Vala Lord for; never mind that he is the only one allowed to call Ilúvatar _sigin'adad_. Never mind everything that he is - all the elves can see are his short stature (though he is taller than almost every dwarf to ever live) and they name his strength lesser than songs and poetry.

(No matter that the Children of Mahal know music better than any of the Eldar.)

He crafts metalwork of terrible beauty, captures light and fire in jewels and metal. He and his kin create wonders of stone and cloth and anything they set their mind to, because they are children of Mahal, forged from the heart of the earth, and they will endure.

But Durin, with the responsibility of the eldest, shields his kin from the harshness of the Eldar, who name themselves kind but are crueler than any who live beneath the mountain. Durin, still young and innocent from the pain that would follow, guards his people from the unthinking cruelty of the Eldar and remains ever-watchful against the threat of censure and rebuke from the eldest among that race, whose arrogance they think gives them the ability to silence all who do not agree.

He sets himself to learning every weapon he can, to fighting with a speed and agility that they would have said beyond the heavy-footed mountain-spawn, to using his strength to its greatest effect and to creating such brilliant masterpieces of forge-work that not even the untouchable elves can think themselves above it.

Durin pushes himself to learn all he can, to excel and to prove his people worthy, to defend his kin and _'adad_ and prove that the Children of Mahal can be great.

And, in time, he becomes the greatest warrior ever seen upon Middle-earth, his glory written in the starlit crown upon his brow for all to see, forged in the mighty halls of Khazad-dûm, and yet still the Eldar look down upon them from their homes within the trees and call them warmongering and destructive.

(Never mind that it is the elves who become kinslayers, never mind that it is the dwarrow who forge and carve and _create_.)

And years after, a Durin hardened by war and strife looks upon his memories of Valinor and only sees the elves' intolerance of the "lesser" dwarrow, and thinks nothing of it later.

And never does he even consider that his next childhoods will be anything even remotely similar.

* * *

He is proven wrong almost the moment he is old enough to leave the comforting (and a little smothering, to a warrior who faced down Morgoth himself repeatedly, but he knows his new parents intend only love) embrace of the royal quarters and enter into the vast and difficult realm of childhood.

He is at once taken aback at the _cruelty_ he is faced with, and cannot help but recall the tight-knit closeness between his first siblings, but he supposes that might have had something to with their common enemy in the Eldar.

And it doesn't help either that he is coming fresh from the nightmarish horror of the War of Wrath and the last battle with Morgoth, and even remembering the sight of the skies splitting open and the Valar descending upon the battlefield isn't enough to banish the terror he still feels, deep within.

But the battle he remembers as being only a fleeting moment ago has been over for hundreds of years now and no one remembers that dark day except in legend and song that linger upon the moments of strength on the part of the Free Peoples and do not touch upon the pervading sense of hopelessness that every single one of them might fall upon this battlefield and leave only a broken Arda overrun by darkness. And thus none can understand him, can even hope to comprehend his blinding fear, and when his nightmares and flashbacks strike all his parents see are his incomprehensible fright and it terrifies each and every one of them. They shelter him in a futile attempt to try and guard him from the fears, for he is the third son and therefore a precious gift from Mahal that must be guarded and watched over at all times.

(When he learns about that, he starts laughing bitterly, mystifying all others in the room, for they do not know how right they are.)

And so when he meets the others his age for the first time, they have already been together for some time, forming allegiances that he has not been included in by simple absence, and he is left uncomfortably out of the loop, made even worse when he _knows_ everything they try to teach him because he has already learned it, beneath the brilliant light of twin trees. His eldest brother is busy learning to rule and his middle brother is uninterested in the responsibility of having to drag around a younger, stranger sibling everywhere he goes, which means in practice that he is shunned by both and the other children follow their lead. His strange flashbacks make matters even worse, for he is so very 'different' and, elf or dwarf, children cannot bear difference. He is protected by his parents, who try only to defend him but only lead to whispers of _sheltered_ and _weak_ and _look at him, he can't even walk through the market without being monitored_.

He tries to fight back the same as on Valinor, tries to prove himself worthy and it never works, because no matter how skilled he shows himself to be the whispers never stop.

And then his parents are both killed, his eldest brother crippled and his middle brother is too young yet, so Durin has to step in and take up his old throne once again, and when he reveals himself to be Durin the ones who mocked him say they apologize but he can feel the judgment in their eyes. His eldest brother willingly spends every moment of a day with him should he need it, his middle brother spars with him at his leisure, and he commiserates with them both over the pain of loss.

* * *

By the time his third life comes around, the hard edges left by the War of Wrath have been blunted by the love of his family, and a second lifetime has given him much-needed experience of being only a dwarf and not the favorite of the Valar, the _sigindashat_ of Ilúvatar, one of only thirteen dwarrow in all of Valinor.

And now he knows that he only breeds resentment with his skill, rather than the awe he wishes, and as the only child of a king who married a Blacklock whitesmith for love, no matter the diplomatic and political consequences, he sees no need to try and prove himself over and over again.

He neglects weapons training and the arts of war and diplomacy - he is already too familiar with those after only two lifetimes - in favor of secreting himself in the library and burying himself in any knowledge he can find. He renews old friendships with the less arrogant members of the Eldar, now that the pain of his first life has faded enough that he can remember the sacrifices made by the elves and recall that some were kinder and wiser than most he has known, even amongst the dwarrow.

He is called strange, mocked and teased mercilessly, but he ignores them entirely, and after the first time one of his elven friends bests the most vocal of the lords speaking out against him, very few comments are directed at him within his hearing.

(Or what they _think_ is within his hearing. It isn't his fault, after all, that his stone-sense is keen enough that he can discern words from the vibrations in the stone.)

He spends many of his days with his old friends amongst the Eldar, his parents (in whom he confides his identity earlier than his other lives), or alone in the library or his forge, either seeking knowledge or creating it himself. And when the lords demand he be forced into combat training, Durin casually bests every weapon trainer at once, with any weapon they make him use, and he knows that sets tongues wagging but he doesn't particularly care.

By the time he takes the throne, Khazad-dûm has been turned upside down with his general unpredictability, and the casual announcement that he is Durin just sets the tone for the rest of his reign.

* * *

If his third childhood was one of peace and radicalism, his fourth is anything but. Where his third life began in an era of peace and prosperity he ushered in during his second life, his fourth begins in the midst of war with Sauron, the one who killed him the third time and who he was unprepared to defend his kin and friends against until far too late.

(And what makes matters worse is that he also remembers fighting side-by-side with Sauron, then Mairon, remembers how the Maia endlessly took his side against the elves, remembers teaching him the finer points of forging. Mairon has been lost since his first life, but now it is so much more _real_ to him than it had been when his old friend was just another faceless lieutenant of Morgoth.)

Durin has no opportunity now to be the peacemaker of his third life and the quiet scholar who spoke with elves as friends and was endlessly polite to the citizens of Khazad-dûm. This is a time that requires strength and he does not hesitate to supply it in spades, even though he only plays the role, for now, of being the mighty, inspiring heir to the throne.

But also there is the matter of his younger brother, born blind and limping, more than useless in the eyes of so many, and while in this life Durin has manifested his latent majesty too early to be subjected to teasing his little brother is an excellent target, and not only among the young, either.

And he is protective, will be protective to the last and is far too hardened and bitter to be able to combat his brother's tormentors with words.

He gets into far too many fights in those days, often against entirely too many attackers, and he knows it just makes things worse but his little brother simply cannot hold his own in a fight, through no fault of his own, and Durin refuses to allow him to be hurt.

And when Durin claims the throne once more after a spy of Mordor assassinates his father, his little brother proves himself worthy and more.

They say Durin is intelligent, wise, skilled beyond measure but his is knowledge gained over years longer than any dwarf can live and he only appears as skilled as he seems because he has had millennia already to practice.

But his brother is quicksilver-clever with a mind sharper than the blade of a dagger and a memory that rivals Durin's own, not to mention his stone-sense that is practically sorcery. It is his brother who keeps Khazad-dûm running through the years of campaigning against Sauron, his little brother who helps him through the trauma of fighting another Dark Lord and the flashbacks to Beleriand after the Battle of Dagorlad.

And even when his brother has fallen and Durin himself is wearied and close to failing, he still does battle with any who dare besmirch the name of his younger brother.

* * *

When he awakens in his fifth life, burdened down by the weight of too many lifetimes, it is as the middle brother and only son of a king and queen who have adopted three daughters in addition to his blood-siblings. In this life, despite the continued battles with the last vestiges of Sauron's forces and the upheaval created by such a tremendous war, he knows a modicum of peace, surrounded by his six sisters who are both of Durin's blood and not. Their support at his side as he takes the throne to guide his people after the chaos left in the wake of the Last Alliance is what he knows holds him in place during those dark days.

And when the others look at him with judgment in their eyes, the young child with ancient eyes and a quiet solemnity, speaking only when he must, then his elder sisters either take the place he held upon Valinor, the defenders and shields, and his younger sisters, who are too young still to understand anything other than that their beloved brother is in pain try to coax his vanishing smiles to the surface.

His fifth childhood is spent in silent moments in between leading his people and carving out a new trail for the future (no longer blazing, for he is too tired to burn), silent moments of companionship and support as his family stands at his side.

(But they die, and though his youngest two sisters are still alive when he finally meets his death driving a firedrake from Khazad-dûm, he knows they will be long dead when he reawakens.)

* * *

His sixth life is one of pain and betrayal and complete, utter exhaustion.

The ring granted to them by Celebrimbor in his third life has poisoned his line, and while he may be free of its touch simply because his blessing and power writ in the starlight crown he wears, that does not mean he has the strength to oppose the thousands of years of memories burying him in long-ago sorrow and pain.

The taunts flung his way are the harshest they have ever been, and he knows that his people are losing their faith in the Line of Durin, for they have seen the gold-sickness taking its toll upon their hearts.

It is the knowledge of what they are doing to his people that drives him to confront his kin, but his elder sister and his father have been consumed by the ring and cannot see in him anything but an enemy trying to steal what is rightfully theirs.

He is victorious against them, when they try to attack and destroy him, but being forced to slay his own kin, gold-mad though they might be, breaks something within him that has been wavering on the edge of shattering for years upon years.

And then the memories of so many years of pain and sorrow and death come crashing down upon him, burying him beneath its weight.

He does not lose his mind to the gold-sickness, but to despair.

* * *

When he awakens for what he knows will be the last time, it is with the heavy weight of guilt upon his shoulders and the knowledge that his madness has killed thousands upon thousands of his own kin, those he _swore_ to protect.

Time dulls the sharp edges of his self-hatred, but it will never eclipse the guilt. Not even the death of the Balrog and the reclamation of Khazad-dûm, reforging his ancient halls into a kingdom to rival Valinor, can do that for him.

And Erebor is truly beautiful, but the sight of these halls always serves as a reminder of his actions and what he has done to his people.

And nothing has changed. His grandfather struggles against the weight of the crown and the insanity of the ring of power and the gold-madness, and his father is buried in trying to run a kingdom in the times when his grandfather cannot. The people still whisper of the failings of the Line of Durin and how unfit they are to rule, and _nothing has changed_.

Durin's years press down upon his shoulders, with a guilt and self-loathing that burns a fiery agony into his heart and all too often brings him awake screaming with nightmares of fire and blood and death.

He walks through the halls of Erebor lost in his own mind, terribly-old eyes watching in dark silence as grown dwarrow who look at him and see only a little dwarfling far from home offer him a cookie and help finding his way home.

(Durin only wishes he knew where that was.)

As it is, he can only trail behind him as they walk him back to his father or mother or occasionally his grandfather when the king isn't buried in work or lost in gold.

And on the training field, it is worse.

It is not simply that he knows every single form they throw at him, and can win against the entire standing army without any of his sorcery. It is that he remembers using these techniques in a thousand battles, it is that either he is lost in flashbacks or panics entirely at the thought of attacking friends or kin.

It is that he can barely swing any of the axes without dropping them at the sheer _wrongness_ of their balance compared to the mithril weapon he is so used to, it is that he cannot wear any armour other than light chainmail without being thrown into violent flashbacks of too many battles wearing heavy plate that sometimes turned the blows aside but more often than not just exhausted him.

He hears their whispers as he trains, endlessly practicing the most basic of forms until he can perform them perfectly without seeing the shadows of other battles flickering in the corners of his vision.

_\- he thinks he will lead us? -_

_\- look at him, he has to run through every form over and over just to remember -_

_\- he cannot even attack us without almost dropping his blade in fear -_

_\- cannot even wield an axe -_

_\- what would Mahal think of such a one? -_

Durin has to keep himself from bursting into bitter, hysterical laughter at their quiet words, at the irony that is only known to him.

It is not in order to remember that he practices, but in order to _forget_.

* * *

Three Ages and uncountable years later, Thorin not-yet-Oakenshield, Durin VII and Last, practices his combat forms with a single-minded intensity reminiscent of his old practice upon Valinor.

But where once he fought for recognition, for honor and for the defense of those he held dear, now he is too weary, too pained to be able to commit himself to righteous combat for even the defense of those he loves.

Now, in his last life, he fights because it is his duty (and if Durin is anything, it is not an oathbreaker), setting impossible standards upon himself to try and compensate for the loss of Khazad-dûm and blaming himself when he fails to achieve them. He is still starlight, the crown on his brow still blazing, but now those stars drown beneath the weight of innumerable losses.

(Somewhere within the Undying Lands, the Valar gather and mourn for their lost and fading dwarf king, the child who was once their adopted son, and wait for the end of this last life so that he may finally come home.)

**Author's Note:**

> And the best part? Thorin hasn't had to deal with the mess around Smaug and Azanulbizar and him falling to the gold-sickness (again) yet.   
> You're welcome.


End file.
